Bad Driver, Bad Cop

Unlike many mothers, I anticipated relief as my son approached driving age. He, and later my daughter, almost certainly would drive more capably than I ever could. They had grown up alert to the road, quick to point out the semi bearing down on us from the right-hand lane.

(Among other bad habits, I favor the left-hand lane, perhaps because of my pronounced left-handed, whole left-side-of-body, and thus right-brained make-up.)

A sixteen-year old in Westchester can obtain a learner’s driving permit by passing a written test, a vision test, and paying a fee.

Before my son applied for the learner’s permit, my husband took him to the Union Carbide parking lots for driving practice. He used our “station car,” an automatic transmission Chevy we’d bought from a neighbor. He’d learn to drive the stick shift Honda next month.

My son’s birthday lands at the end of September. I picked him up from school. For some reason, I had failed to bring apples and cheese and water bottles. I probably lost track of time, writing a long-lost novel.

The afternoon started out sunny. At the Yonkers DMV, my son earned a perfect score on the written test. We waited and waited for his vision test. I handed him a roll of quarters to feed the meter. If his name appeared on the rolling sign, I’d jump in line.

Later, we waited while they processed his paperwork. A man took his photograph. Eventually, someone called his name and handed him a temporary learner’s permit; the official card would arrive in the mail. 

“I imagined worse.” I strapped in behind the Honda’s steering wheel. “Daddy’ll take you driving on the road after he gets home.”

The sunny afternoon turned to dusk. Broadway through Yonkers followed a rush hour, hurry-up-and-slam-the-brakes rhythm. The narrow right line staggered and bunched from congestion, everyone vying for an almost invisible right-hand exit, overgrown with bushes, that led to the Parkway, which I had no intention of using.

When an open bulge developed across from St. John’s Hospital, I slid into it, partly out of a courtesy, I thought, to the mass congestion of angry drivers, many pressing their elbows into their horns while they waited to edge their way through the brush.

Before I’d proceeded 500 feet through a green light at Odell Avenue, a police car pulled me over. My son said, “Must be a mistake.”

“No. I saw a green arrow flash. I needed to turn left, or I shouldn’t have used this lane.”

I rolled down my window and the officer was rocking on heels, already angry. Sighing, I handed him my license and registration.

“You know what you just did, don’t you, lady? You ignored two turn-only yellow arrows on the road in front of the hospital, and a turn-only green arrow at the light.”

“I didn’t see any yellow arrows.” (I glanced back, and still saw no trace on the asphalt.)

He whipped a parking ticket off my windshield. “I suppose you didn’t see this, either.”

“No, I didn’t.” (Honestly, I hadn’t.)

“Wait here.” He returned to his car.

While he checked my records, my son admitted he had forgotten about “feeding” the meter. Sixteen-years old, six feet-two and growing, he heard the word “feeding” and had found a place to buy a snack.

“You’re lucky, no priors. I’m writing you up for three moving violations. That means nine points against your license. Two more and it’ll be suspended.”

My unchecked reaction offended the policeman: a scofflaw woman laughing.

Partly, my laugh was nervous, but it didn’t sound nervous; it sounded incredulous. Because I was incredulous: Three moving violations?

I laughed and said what he’d already told me: “I’ve never gotten one violation before.”

My next reaction, also borne from anxiety, stemmed from a deep-rooted, unfortunate personality trait. When nervous, besides laughing, I turn sarcastic.

“Officer Minnerly,” I said, having gotten his name from the badge on his chest. “End of month, right? How many moving violations do you need for your quota? Three? If it’s four, I’m sure you can figure out a way to give me four. After all, I drove a few hundred feet in the wrong lane.”

“You want to lose your license? Four will make twelve points against you. Eleven is eighteen months suspension.”

“Eighteen months! Eight-pause-teen!”

Here, my embarrassed son leaped out of the car and ran off. Officer Minnerly, muttering about “the situation,” rushed to his car and called for backup! When I could no longer see my kid, I too jumped out of the car, oblivious that when stopped by the police, one must never get out of her car. Seeing me out of the dented old Honda, Officer Minnerly ordered me to get back in. “Or else, I’ll arrest you!”

“Arrest me? Are you going to frisk me, too?”

“If you want me to frisk you, I’ll frisk you.”

By now, his backup had arrived. One marked car, one unmarked car and two motorcycles. Meanwhile, the rush hour traffic horns blared. One backup guy walked along with his club extended at an angle. This shut up everyone but me.

“I’ll get back in my car when my son returns.”

“Your son? It that who that was? A woman like you shouldn’t have children.”

He had me now. I heaved and choked. I can cry at will, except that once crying, I can’t stop. So laughing in outrage, I said, “You’re threatening to take my children away?”

“Let’s calm down,” Officer Minnerly said, after his backup men had pulled him aside and calmed him down. “We won’t bring back your son until you’re locked inside your car. And if you are his mother, it’s time you told the kid that running from a crime scene is a good way to get shot in the back.”

That shut me up, that “shot in the back” did the trick. Head hanging, I gripped the steering wheel and waited.

(To Be Continued)

Comments

Wow, I never guessed you were such a gangsta, Kathleen!

Love the way the boy runs off, though.

"Bag this, I'm outa here!"

[Dan Leo]

Yep, that was me again, forgetting to submit my info to the Homeland Insecurity Dept.

[blue girl]

Kathleen is a gangsta! Story sounds really scary, though. I am the exact opposite when it comes to police pulling me over. It scares me to death. Just the authority, I guess. I hate that they have that control over me, but they do.

When blue kid was maybe 13? He and I were in the car together and I got pulled over for speeding. The cop on the motorcycle took my license and disappeared for what seemed like forever.

Blue Kid looked at me and said, "Guess you're not pretty enough to get out of it!"

lol.

We had just watched a Friends episode where there was a storyline like that. Anyway. I *did* get out of it somehow and just looked at Blue Kid and said, "Ha! Take that!"

[Bosco]

As Lance Mannion says,
"you can't make a policeman take the romantic view."

[Kathleen]

You're all so right. I hardly expected the guy take "the romantic view": If he'd wanted to dole out one moving violation? No argument.
Then, all that back-up! Guns, earphones, billy clubs! Later I read on the internet about what happens to women who sass big bad man cops when no one's there watching.
As for my son, whenever I even offered to talk to the school about a complaint he had, he'd panic, and even bargain to keep me away. Yet, all in all, I embarrassed my daughter more, not intentionally, but because once I hit my limit, I'm gone.

[Billy Warhol]

oh god this Summer I finally dug myself out of $5,200 Bucks in Parking Tickets + fer not having the Stoopid $75 Sticker!

I fought the Law + the Law Won!!

I ain't a Big Fan of Cops to begin with so it was a Huge Relief to put this behind me - there's some amazing Juicy Gory Deets but I'll save ya cuz it's too Upsetting for me to get Riled Up at this point*

;)) Peace*

[Kathleen]

Billy, how'd you find this old thing? Sometime when you think it might be therapeutic, I'd love if you'd cry on my shoulder. You've certainly heard plenty of my woes!